


Drawing Blood

by certs_up



Category: Vampire Hunter D
Genre: Biting, Blood Drinking, F/M, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Menstrual Sex, Non-Consensual, Sexual Content, Unintentional Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-05-17
Updated: 1998-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certs_up/pseuds/certs_up
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the first Vampire Hunter D movie. What might, just <i>might</i>, have happened after D saved Doris and before he left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Blood

It had been kind of her to give him the sword.

Dan had been the first to actually remark on D's having lost his sword. That final battle with Count Lee had been deadly: it was as close as D had ever come to losing his life, when the old vampire's knife had sunk to its hilt in his heart. It would have killed a human, but D was a dhampir—half vampire, half human, and, if the old legends were true, thus born to hunt and kill the vampire-kind. His vampire blood gave him unusual strength and healing abilities, and that was why, despite the pain, D had found strength to retaliate, to more than retaliate, and had thrust—not merely thrust, _flung_ his sword to pin the old vampire high on his own castle wall. Even with his blood streaming down, spreading rapidly over the floor, Count Lee had not died immediately; he could still wield his evil influence...

D knew he was very, very fortunate not to have lost his life on that spot. And when the castle's master finally had died, the entire structure had collapsed, destroying not only the monsters that served Count Lee but Ramika, the Count's half-vampire daughter. Ramika had been in part D's salvation: she had rebelled against her father at the last, defying his command to destroy the vampire hunter. D regretted the loss of that noble, honorable soul, but it had been her own choice to end her life as she did. She was gone. The monsters were gone.

And his sword was gone.

He and Doris and Dan had returned to the Lang home, Doris in a state of semi-shock, mostly aware that she was still alive, not yet capable of caring about anything else. For his part, D felt an overwhelming fatigue. Dan, however, had bounced back with the resilience of youth, his excitement at his recent adventure filling his thoughts and his speech. D found the boy's chatter oddly cathartic. His own youth was far behind (had he ever been _that_ young?), yet Dan's recital of his adventures, his fears, his accomplishments, was in some ways not so different from D's thoughts—thoughts he had no inclination to voice but felt a sense of release on hearing echoed in youthful tones.

When they actually got back to the house, Doris, poor woman, was still in that absurd bridal gown, looking mostly as if she wanted to peel it off and burn it. D had just taken his hat off and was looking for a place to put it—he finally settled on an end of the L-shaped couch—when Dan exclaimed, "D, you don't have your sword any more!"

D had simply nodded. But Doris gasped at the realization and at her own selfishness: not only had the sword saved her life and her soul, she had come to think of it as part of D, an extension of his strength and courage. And yet she had been so preoccupied she hadn't even noticed a loss of such magnitude. "D—I'm sorry—"

"It's all right, Doris. I can get another sword."

D hoped his voice and face maintained his usual stoic facade. There was no need to give Doris more worries, and he could indeed get another sword. Nonetheless, that one had been a faithful friend through many adventures, and he already missed its weight on his back.

Doris all but ran to the mantel. She had to stand on tiptoe, but she reached down the sword that was her legacy, her father's sword that D had admired only a few nights ago—although half an eternity seemed to have passed. Before he could really react, she was in front of him, pressing the sword onto him, literally curling his gloved hand around it.

"D, I owe you my life—it was my father's. Take it. Please. I want you to have it." After a pause, she added, "You said it would be payment enough if you killed Magnus Lee ... if you don't want payment ... it's a gift. Please."

She had backed away from him then, perhaps remembering how his bloodlust had risen the last time she had been so close. D looked lost for a moment—he was, in truth, a little awed at the magnitude of her gift, her heirloom bestowed on him. Awed and touched, although it was not his nature to show it. He drew the sword. It was a beautiful weapon, superbly balanced, reassuringly heavy; used, but always in defense of life and humanity.

"It's a noble blade," D said at last. The light glinted off it almost painfully. "You've kept it well."

The day had passed. There had been events. The farm still had to be run, and D had helped improve on the temporary repairs he had earlier made to the house—repairs necessitated by the damage that Count Lee's monsters had wrought—but these were little more than gray blurs in his consciousness. Between all he had experienced at Castle Lee and Doris's having given him the sword—which had made a profound, almost frightening impression on him—the details of daily life seemed not only inconsequential but infinitely disposable. And his mind in large part disposed of them.

It was night now, and D was alone in the main room, on the couch where he had spent previous nights. Doris and Dan had gone to bed. D couldn't sleep. He needed very little sleep anyway, but he felt immensely tired. The day had been long; the night before, much, much longer, and even his dhampir's strength had its limits. He was tired, and the danger was past; he should have been able to sleep. But sleep refused to come.

He paced the room slowly, touching objects: a doily on an end table; the banister of the staircase that led upstairs; the mantel, above which an old handgun still hung; the curtains (he did not care to open them, did not want to see the moon that had gazed on his wild fight with the mutant Rei Ginsei); and, finally, his new sword. He drew it once again, regarded its shining length, savored its balance. The weight of a sword in his hand always set his heart at ease. The thought of how Doris had given it to him, however, was inseparable from the gift. He was not sorry to have accepted it—refusal would have been an unpardonable insult—and was glad to be properly armed again. And yet...

Soft footsteps on the stairs interrupted his thoughts. It was Doris, wrapped in a modest robe. D regarded her with quiet curiosity.

"I couldn't sleep," she explained. "And I saw the lights were on down here, and..." She ended the sentence with an embarrassed shrug. D looked down, sheathed the sword and set it aside—and winced, drawing a hiss of breath between his teeth.

"D? Are you all right?"

D nodded carefully. "A little sore," he said. He tried to rub his shoulder but encountered his own armor, bulky as a football player's. D sighed. He didn't need that now either, any more than his long-removed hat and the sword that he had set aside. For a wandering hunter, it was hard to think of any place as safe ... but this place was, at least for now. He unfastened his cape and took it off, then his shoulder armor and, after a moment's hesitation, the combat belt he wore across his chest and his low-slung knife belt. He hunched and rolled his shoulders and—as best he could—rubbed the right one. The soreness was not from exertion but from being slammed repeatedly against the walls of the vampire's castle. D resented the bloodthirst of his vampire heritage, but he had to admit that his dark blood brought benefits as well: the bruising was nothing to what a human would have suffered. Still, there was some residual pain.

Doris watched, her expression shifting from interest to concern that bordered on worry. She had come to think of D as always strong and dignified, but there was a leveling humanness to his efforts—and to his somewhat pained expression.

"Let me," she said at last, taking a few steps toward him. "You can't reach your own shoulders. Hm ... I wonder where..." She glanced about, looking for a place that would be comfortable for him and would give her room to work. D, rather to her surprise, strode over to the thick rug in front of the fireplace and sat on it cross-legged.

"Yes, that's fine. Take your shirt off, okay?" D looked at her silently for a moment, then complied, hands surprisingly dexterous despite his brown leather gloves (which stayed on) as Doris knelt behind him. She put her hands on his shoulders and realized, with a start, that her fingers were cold, chilled with the nervousness of doing this to someone she knew so little, however brave and kind to her he had been.

"Maybe you'd better lie down," she said, after a few tentative probes of that broad, muscular expanse. "I think I can reach you better. And it might make you less tense." _And maybe my hands will warm up a little._

She moved aside barely fast enough for D's legs to miss her as he stretched out prone, face resting on his crossed arms. He was longer than the rug, but only his boots protruded onto the hardwood floor. Doris rubbed her hands together, half to warm them, half nerving herself.

"I have to do this to Dan sometimes," she said conversationally, running her fingers up the length of his shoulderblades. It was still a bit of a reach across his back; he was so big. "He's always trying to do things—and he practices with his gun so long his muscles get stiff from it sometimes. He's a good shot, though—let me know if it hurts, okay?"

There was no response, not that Doris really expected one—D was so very taciturn—and she began a careful exploration of the pale skin of his upper back, pressing with the tips of her fingers and thumbs. "I'm sorry my hands are cold. They'll get warm in a few minutes, honest. Just try to relax. It doesn't work if you're all tense."

And D did gradually relax as she worked her way along the contours of his back. His skin was smooth and thin and slid easily, almost too easily, over firm, heavy muscles that occasionally tensed to rock-hardness at Doris's touch. There _were_ little knots of worry here and there. Doris knew that working them out would hurt, but their presence caused pain as well. At least her hands were getting warmer: perhaps from her own growing confidence, perhaps from the warmth of D's back.

Her hands were warm now. D felt the calluses on them, little muscle-like ridges that almost scraped as she worked. What did she do to build those mounds of flesh? She maintained a farm ... what did she not do? Carry feed and water and hay, muck the stalls, groom the horse, medicate sick or injured animals, repair the buildings and fences ... and handle the whip, that amazing whip. Her fingers were strong and agile, probing his skin and the muscles beneath. He could feel it when she encountered knots, carefully pressed and kneaded them out ... or when she touched the incipient bruises that she couldn't feel, but that he could, distinctly. They were everywhere. Yet oddly, the pain was not as great as he had expected. Perhaps it was the warmth of her touch that sweetened the pain; it was more like the freshening ache of stretching after a good night's sleep. Beneath it, within it, was the sensation of wakening, coming to life. And something in him _did_ waken, stirring. For a moment his eyes opened, then glided shut again—not in sleep, but in an oddly contented quiescence.

Doris was intent on her work, hands moving systematically, rhythmically, fingers at once fierce and gentle. D was perfectly still through it all, and he did feel more relaxed now. His breathing was slow, his pulse—Doris touched his neck gently—quiet and regular.

"D?" she said, barely a murmur. D made no response; he was savoring the new sensations coursing through his muscles and veins. Doris waited a moment, then sighed and leaned carefully on his shoulders.

"Good night, D." Her voice was only a whisper, a little sad but tender. She bent over him, and her lips touched his cheek in a soft, lingering kiss.

She never saw his hand move. She knew only that one moment both his arms had been under his head; the next, one was pressing her face against his, and his eyes were open, intensely and beautifully blue. A little more slowly, he rolled half onto his side, auburn hair spilling down his cheek. He cupped her face between his hands; Doris noticed, incongruously, that they too were warm. Those eyes had never before been so close to her own. She still could not read their expression, but their depths spoke wordlessly, drew her with their stillness. Time became measureless when she gazed into them, but surely it was moments rather than hours later that D's mouth slowly opened and pulled her nearer to return the kiss. Doris closed her eyes and waited...

For contact that never came. D drew back, jaws snapping shut as he came to himself, freed of something that Doris's blue eyes bestowed. He released her face, rolled onto his back, and turned his head away from her, grimacing. He could have bitten her, nearly _had_ bitten her: it was not in a vampire's nature to kiss with the lips alone, and his breath came deeper and faster with the realization of what had almost been.

Doris realized too when she saw him lying there, hair flung astray with the force of turning away from her. She reached out, gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "You need blood, don't you?" she said softly. "D, it's okay. I want to give you something for all you've done. Please—take that from me."

D sat up, breaking the contact between them as he rolled away from her, albeit not very far. He felt a little more himself sitting up than lying down. He should have risen, turned his back, walked away; but he had felt her warmth pressing against him, and it was so hard to refuse. He had pushed her away once—reluctantly, with effort, but he had. Something was different now; he could smell blood beneath her skin-scent. It had been a temptation before, but now he wanted it desperately, wanted it like the air he drew in labored breaths—air laden with more of that scent that refused to let him move away. He leaned on his hands, face averted as if the rug had become an object of the greatest fascination.

"Doris—" It was hoarse, breathless, gasped through a mouth wet with too much saliva.

"Just hold me," Doris whispered in return. She put her arms around him, pulling him closer, and suddenly he _was_ holding her. His face nuzzled her hair; the word _no_ sounded in his mind, but he was unable to voice it, to even form it with his lips, lips that brushed over her ear, pressed against her cheek and slid down her neck as he pushed her hair aside. Warm, she was so _warm_ , and her quickening pulse was like a life unto itself, a warmth that beckoned like light, opened itself to him as if to draw him in.

Doris sat still, holding him as tightly as she dared. She had closed her eyes again—frightened, yes, but resolved to go through with whatever came. It was D's nature to drink blood, to _need_ blood. It should have been easy to think him evil like the Nobles, but she couldn't. She knew she could trust him with her life, _had_ trusted him with her life, when she had sought his services and invited him into her home. He had not betrayed that trust before and would not now. He would not have forced himself on her as Count Lee had; indeed, when she had urged her blood upon him before, he had refused it. But he had been through so much more; he had to be tired and ... hungry, if that was the word. Perhaps he was afraid she would regret it if she let him drink her blood, let him bite her. It would hurt, and the loss of blood would weaken her, but Doris promised herself: No regrets. Not for this. Not for D. She was strong, with courage to face pain (his bite couldn't possibly be worse than Count Lee's) and plenty of blood to give.

His lips were soft, soft and a little moist against her neck. And gentle: it _was_ almost a kiss, a long, gliding kiss; at first just hard enough not to tickle, then pressing urgently. She felt the hardness of teeth behind the warm lips, then the teeth themselves ... there. It would be there, and Doris steeled herself against the— _ah!_ —the pain, and it was very real pain, so much she nearly cried out. Somehow she held silence; he mustn't know it had hurt her, not when it was to give him what he needed, and what she longed to give.

She wrapped the pain in a separate place in her mind, cocooned it away from her, made a barrier of the other sensations: D's arms around her, his gloved hands holding her firmly rather than tightly; his cheek smooth against her neck; his tongue ... he didn't suck the blood as a vampire would, but lapped it from the wound, and his tongue was gentle. Perhaps it was just the passing of time, perhaps his touch as well, but the pain receded, and Doris relaxed, surprised at how tense apprehension had made her. Surprised and a little embarrassed: D would never hurt her, not really. He licked her neck with a gentle rhythm, and Doris sighed, contented, knowing her body was nourishing him.

D drank as he had never drunk before. Oh, he had drunk blood—between one thing and another—but never this way, never sharing a gentle embrace with someone whose touch had warmed his heart and whose strength and trust had won it. And it was so good, so _good_. It was not like eating, not like kissing; perhaps a little like basking before a fire, but this heat warmed from the inside with a crimson radiance, healing and bringing life. This _was_ life, the very essence of life, to lap and swallow, to receive and live. He knew he had long been alone, ever alone, but he hadn't realized what it was to be without this. He had never known before that anything could fill the void inside him—had never even known the void penetrated to such cold depths until this life curled within it, filled it as he drank.

It was not a deep wound, and in a matter of minutes the flow of blood became a trickle, then an ooze; efforts that had brought tongue-coatings of blood now yielded only hints of its taste in plasma. D pressed his tongue into the wound, licking harder, more deeply; then actually sucked, longing for more, needing more. The wound was dry, this springhead played out, and he nearly whined with frustration, pressing his mouth against that soft neck, pressing his teeth against it...

"There, it's all right," Doris murmured, whether to him or to herself it was hard to say. But her voice brought him out of himself as it had once before, and he grew very still, eyes going wide in shocked realization. He had been drinking blood. He had been drinking _Doris's_ blood, and she was—she had been—bleeding...

D pressed his cheek against her violated neck with something dangerously close to a sob. Her pulse was strong, at least; he could feel it, so near the skin and so near his own skin, rapid and driving, crying out to his hearing and touch. She was alive, she _was_ alive...

D forced himself to push away from her, just enough to loosen her grasp and let him look at her face. She looked back with moist, starry eyes and a faint but sweet smile that drove ice into his heart. How could he have hurt someone who trusted him so—whose trust remained untainted even by this unspeakable betrayal? How _could_ he?

D touched one of her eyes, pulled down the lower eyelid to look at its inside and then, not trusting his judgment, slipped a gloved finger between her lips to look at her gums. When relief smoothed the contours of his face, Doris realized what he was doing and nearly laughed.

"Oh, D—" she hugged him again "—I'm fine. I'm really fine." Then, her voice soft and small: "Do you feel better?"

D was still for a long time, but said at last, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." He was so hard to talk to. "Would you ... I mean ... do you need more?"

" _No._ "

Under any other circumstances it would have been funny—he'd said it so forcefully. But pain underlay the force in his voice, and Doris pressed against him in a reassuring hug—one that D was too shaken to return. But neither was he able to pull himself away, not from someone who clung to him in compassion and trust.

At last D half turned from her and scooped her up, one hand under her shoulders, one under her legs, as gently as if she were made of eggshells, but careful not to look at her. He couldn't bring himself to look at her again, not yet. Saying _I'm sorry_ wasn't enough. For that matter, offering his head on a platter wasn't enough, but he would have eternity for self-recrimination. Doris had already endured too much at his hands; there was no reason to force on her the words ringing in his mind, words condemning him for his own weakness, his lack of control. The symbiot, that cursed _thing_ , would never let him hear the end of this. And for that matter, neither would his conscience.

D carried Doris up the stairs and to her room, where he carefully laid her on the bed. Or tried to—she didn't want to let him go. He did finally separate her arms from his neck, but she grabbed one of his hands in hers while turning on a bedside lamp with the other. D winced at the sudden, soft light, blinked as his eyes adjusted—and Doris's free hand now covered his as well.

"Lie down," he said, pressing her away. "You need to rest. And ... that ... needs to be washed and bandaged."

"Don't go. I'm sure it's fine."

D shook free of her grasp a little roughly, silent; shifted his weight to turn away.

" _D!_ "

It wasn't just her voice. It was a power. There was no other way to describe it. D stood still in surprise, looking—almost staring—at the diminutive figure on the bed, the woman who, it seemed, held him in thrall merely by speaking his name.

"Don't go," Doris repeated, taking his hand again. "I want you here with me. Please."

D closed his eyes, unmoving, trying to slow his breathing. His breathing...

"Your scent is different," he said, a little hoarsely. It accounted for something, but he couldn't tell what.

"Different?"

D nodded, seeking words. "Richer," he said at last, with a voice that barely answered to his call. It was more than scent: more than blood scent, more than woman scent, and the power ran through it, thrummed in her words, tugged at him like her pulse when she spoke.

"I want you to be here," Doris said, almost apologetically. Her natural strength reasserted itself and she slid over, patting the bed beside her. "Here. Sit down."

D obeyed, oddly not comforted by his back being to her now. It was not just the lack of armor that made him feel naked. Doris sighed.

"You are so impossible," she said.

_That's what Father always said about his efforts to have a dhampir son,_ D thought incongruously, gaze intent on his clenched, gloved hands. Then Doris's arms were warm around him again.

"D, it was what I wanted," she said. "Don't be upset."

The silence was long before he replied, "I hurt you."

"D, I don't mind."

_That's one of us,_ D thought sourly.

Doris had no great love for D's vampire nature, but neither could she despise him for it: it was part of him, too. She had fed that part for the sake of the rest of him; she wished his hero's heart could accept the gift as readily as his body had. His back was tense again, and she could see the rise and fall of muscles in his upper arms. Words seemed so empty now; D used few enough of them as it was. Perhaps they hurt him.

His pain hurt her, and she could not bear the thought of his being alone with it.

"This is what we were doing," she said softly, and she went to her knees and bent over his shoulder to kiss his cheek—once, then again, nearer his mouth, and again, nearer.

Her next kiss would have found his lips or, more likely, overbalanced her and sent her tumbling heels-over-D off the bed, but D turned toward her at last, eyes still sad but mouth meeting hers, half open, but not in a bite; that urge was for the moment quiescent, or at least quieter than before. Doris was secretly delighted and more than a little relieved that D would at least _do_ something instead of consume himself with guilt.

Doris was too shy and D too self-conscious to attempt the deep, probing kisses that more experienced lovers would soon have progressed to. Lips met and explored carefully, almost timidly; cheeks brushed or pressed together; hands caressed faces or held each other, and if Doris felt that D's gloves allowed less contact than she wanted, she gave no sign of it.

Her wound was still oozing a little. _I really should make sure that's all right; it needs to be bandaged,_ D thought, but the thought went no further: Doris's lips were suddenly far more compelling than her neck, and he let himself be drawn to taste them again and savored their perfect, perfect fit against his own. _She is so sweet._ It was barely a conscious thought, but it reflected a desire that touch and kiss had driven from hiding, a desire that had grown into a need. D let Doris pull him toward the middle of the bed, realized this took his feet off the floor and, with an effort, looked away from her.

"I'll get your bed dirty," he said, glancing at his immaculate boots.

"You can take them off," Doris suggested. D gave her cheek a brief, gentle peck before turning away to do so. Doris leaned on his back, watching, then quietly added, "You don't have to stop there."

D looked at her. "Doris..."

"I want to see all of you." Her kiss muffled his attempt to protest, and when she finally released him, he could only nod. He stood and slipped off his remaining clothes ... nearly. His right glove fell to the floor with all the rest, but the left one was staying on. Even the power that Doris suddenly radiated would not force him to expose that _thing_ (he did not regard it as fully part of himself, anyway) when he did not need its power for the sake of his own life. His life was in no danger.

And he no longer cared about protecting his virtue.

He did still care about Doris, however. He might not be fully himself, but he had not lost that, was determined not to. He sat on the bed, partial erection bobbing with the motion as he slid toward her again. Doris had turned away for a moment to pull an object from a nightstand drawer. There was a soft crackle of plastic as she slipped something slick and square into D's hand.

A condom. A _condom_? Doris kept condoms by her bed? She must have taken his slightly confused expression for reproach, for she looked embarrassed—but she didn't release her grip.

"Just to be safe," she said. "Not because—not that—"

Words were so empty, and despairing of their usefulness, she bent down and, gently grasping the shaft of D's penis, kissed its head. D gasped as his erection responded, swelling to its full height under her touch.

" _Warn_ me before you do that," he said, when he was able to speak again. He didn't want release from this—not yet, not now—and not merely her hand but her lips...

It was a sort of self-control he seldom had occasion to exercise.

Doris had backed away, half fearful. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." Then, with a gentleness and passion beyond even what she could have hoped for: "Oh, _no._ " More softly: "But I don't know if I can contain myself at your touch."

So he put the condom on unaided. Realizing that he was wearing only that—and the left glove (some dim half-recollection told her that the glove remained for good reason)—reminded Doris that she was for practical purposes fully clothed, and rather modestly clothed, at that. But when she stood and turned away to untie the robe's sash, D's hands were at her shoulders to pull it off. Underneath, she wore two-piece nightwear, the top soft and smooth, trimmed with touches of lace; the bottom unadorned. Both garments were as blue as her eyes.

D helped pull the top over her head. He would have confined his touch to her back, but Doris sat on the bed again and pulled his arms around her from behind, guiding his hands over her breasts. D held them gently, marveling at how firm the nipples were against his palms, relishing the smoothness of her shoulders against his chest and the softness of her hair against his cheek. He lowered his head, and his mouth found the wound again. Now he kissed it in a lingering kiss, barely tasting the blood but relishing the warmth and closeness of that touch.

Doris took one hand off his and held his face against her neck, smiling. She wanted to ask if he ever smiled but was afraid it would upset him. Smiling or not, he seemed happy now, or at least contented. She didn't want to interfere with that: not by asking stupid questions, not by pulling her body away from his.

But she wanted to feel _all_ of him next to _all_ of her. And soon. It took a little wriggling, but she managed to hook her thumbs in the waistband and, by rolling back and shifting from side to side, she was able to peel the nightie bottom—really little more than a pair of panties—down to her knees.

The crotch was mottled with blood.

Doris felt her face growing red as well. This was not the kind of nakedness she had meant to expose, and she hastily curled her knees to herself and pulled the bottom the rest of the way off; crumpled it, flung it aside. She was unclean, embarrassed; how could a man desire her now, while she was bleeding?

As if in answer, D drew her closer, hands still over her breasts, and she heard him inhale deeply. _Your scent is different,_ he had said. _Richer._ Was this why?

His arms still around her, his hands still on her breasts (and still very gentle): these were not reassurance enough. She always had felt shame at her time of the month, at the pain (it usually did hurt), at the smell, at the mess. It was not something to share, and Doris curled around herself, at once wanting to be held and wanting to be alone. D at last slipped his hands away (what _must_ he think about her?), but only to move more to her side, so he could look at her face, his eyes gentle and keen at once.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just..." She pushed herself a little away from him, glancing, then gesturing, toward her crotch.

Perhaps D misunderstood, or perhaps he understood perfectly. Now kneeling, he rolled her onto her back; held her hands for a moment, then laid them on her chest, his eyes terribly earnest, terribly tender, then gone from view as he bent down to—

She should have expected it, but she didn't, and she was too surprised to object.

The scent was overwhelming, and now he knew, oh, he _knew_ what power it was that held him, that drew his face down to it. His hands slid along her inner thighs to part the flesh beneath the soft brown hair; now with hands under Doris's hips, he pressed his lips and then his tongue against the most wonderful warm, wet velvet.

Doris had never felt anything like it. Doris had never _dreamed_ of anything like the sensation of her clitoris being kissed and then licked. She spread her legs wider, embarrassment forgotten in her pleasure, and D's mouth moved lower until his tongue probed the source of her blood—probed, massaged, plumbed until Doris moaned at the sensations that were too much and yet not nearly enough.

There was blood—some clotted, some fresh—and more than blood. The fluid that crept forth was not pure blood, but it was richer—rich with power, musky with sex. D drank its scent, drowned in its taste, ached for an ocean of it when mere drops had fallen into his reach. There was the strong scent of more, but it was not to be won with a bite: there could be no wounds, not in this sacred place. Here blood could only be bestowed, not stolen. And so his tongue pleaded for that gift the only way it could, lapping all along the sides and then reaching, again and again, for the fount, the springhead that this essence of power and passions flowed from.

"D—!" It was half spoken, half gasped as the sweet flesh-folds stirred, drew together for a moment and pressed out a drop of that wondrous blood. He licked it up with a gentle tongue, and the folds quivered again. "D— _please_ —"

There was no resisting the half plea, half command in her voice—or in her gaze, when D at last looked up at those blue eyes. He drew her toward him, pressed his lips to her belly, her breasts, her mouth.

"I want you inside me," Doris whispered, but he knew as if the wish were his own—it was, it was his as much as hers. He pressed against her inner labia, then eased in as carefully as he could—but it was hard to be careful, to be gentle against such resistance (which gave, suddenly, and a moment later he smelled a new blood scent, more pure and with a power of its own). How could he hold back when both his body and hers demanded that he drive himself in?

Doris was gasping beneath him in a blend of pain and passion, and he pressed against her, an act that suddenly and forcefully reminded him how _tiny_ she was: bodies belly to belly, their faces were too far apart for eye contact. If she were as small inside... D hoped and prayed that she could hold him, that she wouldn't ask him to pull out. He honestly didn't think he could. He hadn't known he'd _needed_ this, needed it as surely as he needed blood. Something stronger than both of them had brought him there, held him there, held him tightly...

Doris held him tightly, outside as well as within, arms and then legs embracing him, and his thrusts began—not willed but automatic, instinctive, inevitable. What drove his body left him deaf and blind to all other sensations: Doris's labored breathing and occasional ecstatic gasps; his own hoarse, inarticulate exclamations; Doris's fingers digging into his back. Her face was pressed against him and streaked with tears—of pain, of joy, of pride and love and lust, and her world narrowed to what was in her arms and within her legs—and within _her_.

D came much too soon, or so it seemed, groaned with pleasure and effort as Doris whimpered and shuddered beneath him. She held D no less tightly as he collapsed on top of her, the day's and night's exertions abruptly catching up with him. Eyes closed, he caught his breath, only half conscious of Doris's struggles. It was her grunt of relief as she finally squirmed partway free that brought him to himself. He was (as he had reflected before, in a moment that allowed very little freedom for reflection) much bigger than she—he'd probably almost smothered her with his weight. Belatedly, he rolled the rest of the way off with a murmured "Sorry."

Doris didn't let him roll very far but snuggled against him as he lay on his side. Their bodies were slick with sweat, and she slid her cheek up and down against D's hairless chest, then lay still, contentedly drowsing, her world warm and complete. It was hard to say how much time passed before her own shiver roused her; without the heat of passion, she was growing chilly. D seemed unaffected by the temperature but sat up and untangled the blankets (briefly pausing to rescue the abandoned condom and dump it onto the floor) and pulled the covers over both of them.

Doris smiled and kissed him, and he winced and turned away.

"D!" Her voice was a reproach, then an apology. "D, don't be sorry. Please."

Perhaps some of her power was gone, or perhaps just some of his susceptibility to it. He could have ignored her and gone to sleep—or left. Both possibilities crossed his mind, rather to his relief, for it showed he was his own man again.

But still, he could never want to hurt her.

Roused once again, Doris realized she had a hundred questions: _Are you—were you—a virgin too? What did my blood taste like? Can't you be happy? Would you like a cigarette?_

She also recognized the futility of voicing them, and it was D who spoke first.

"I'd forgotten," he said. "How the belief began. The Nobles have forgotten. But my father remembered."

His back was to her, but at least he was speaking.

"Forgotten what?" Doris asked, wishing he would face her, but afraid to ask him to.

"The first night I was here, it was the night before Woman's Moon. Vampires believe female blood is unclean on that night, when the moon is red."

Doris nodded, pressing her face against his back so he would know.

"But that's not how the belief started," D continued. "There wasn't always a Woman's Moon; the Nobles brought that about, the red moon you see once a month. Before there was a Woman's Moon, and before the Nobles made the world their own—and before there _were_ Nobles—there were human women with their moon cycles.

"There was a time even before the time before the Nobles. The very earliest days of the human race. Men ... revered women then, for their power. And they knew a woman's power was greatest when her blood flowed ... where there was no wound."

"That was a long time ago," Doris said softly.

"A very long time," D agreed. "But men changed their beliefs and grew greedy for power. What they had worshipped they cast down, and what had been an emblem of power they called a curse of uncleanness. Before, there were taboos on flowing women because their magic was so strong; things they must not touch lest their power undo mere men's lesser magic. But then men said it was because they were unclean. In time they forgot that women had been anything else.

"What the humans had done before them, the vampires did in their turn. Vampires are creatures of blood and susceptible to blood magic. They know—they _should_ know—the power of a woman's moon blood. But they forgot too. They even forgot that it was something inside women instead of outside. And when they remade so much of the world in their image, they made the red moon, and they said _that_ was what made female blood unclean. But they have it backward—like so many things they've perverted. It's not that time when they must be wary of female blood. And not because it is unclean, but because it is so powerful." His voice dropped to a whisper. "So very powerful. And like the Nobles, I had forgotten..."

Doris wasn't sure she had followed everything he said; it was a strange story. She wasn't sure she wanted to understand it; was almost sure she didn't want to.

"I've never heard anything like that before," she said, truthfully.

"The Nobles wouldn't want you to," D admitted. "But it is your birthright as a woman—to know the power you have."

"Power to do what?" Doris asked, fearful but fascinated.

D's silence was frighteningly long, but finally he spoke, voice low: "I could have resisted my own desires. But not yours, too—not on the night of your power. You wanted me to drink your blood ... and I did. You wanted me to come to your bed ... and I am here."

"No." It was a shaken whisper.

"Yes."

"No, D, don't..." And he felt the tug of her moon blood telling him to deny all he had said, to proclaim that he had succumbed to only his own lusts this night. But he had no lust to tell that untruth, not even to comfort Doris, whose voice grew unsteady as she continued, "You didn't—really want—"

"I didn't say that. But I don't have the strength to resist the call of my own ... blood, and your moon blood as well; not when they call with the same voice."

Doris held him, shivering a little—with fear or exhilaration, she wasn't sure. "D ... what if ... what if you _hadn't_ wanted to? Would you—?"

"I don't know," he admitted, in the tone of one who didn't _want_ to know.

"I'm sorry," Doris said at last. "I didn't know ... I didn't mean..."

She truly had meant no harm and truly hadn't been aware of her own power. D couldn't bring himself to feel angry at her, even though he never would have consented to the acts of this night if his judgment had been unimpaired. It was a cliché, but Doris's heart was in the right place, and if she had taken him against his will, she had also given, had given of herself—her blood and her body—as she had given of her inheritance in bestowing the sword on him. How could he bear a grudge against someone who gave so much and so willingly?

She was crying, and D suddenly felt more tired than ever. She had pulled her arms to herself and turned away from him, silent except for occasional hiccups and sniffles.

"Would you rather I left?" D asked softly.

Doris sobbed, turning so quickly that she tangled herself in the covers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face into the mass of soft auburn hair. "Don't go." Her throat was nearly too tight to let speech pass. " _Please_ don't go."

Her hands were cold again, with a realization too vast to be put into words. He might have found her tears repulsive—it was disturbing in more ways than one to have a woman so near him weeping—but he knew it was his heart, not merely her blood, that had held him so long. For all that she had endured, and for all that she had done, he owed her the kindness of his touch. And so he turned toward her and held her, held her against the full length of his body, to comfort her.

"I learned about some of my own powers in hard ways," he said, an unaccustomed sympathy in his voice. "There wasn't always someone to tell me ... to remind me not to think of myself ... as human."

That remark brought her back to herself, at least somewhat. "Can anybody ... can this happen to any woman?"

"No. The power is rare. Most women lack it."

"What about ... other men? Are they...?"

"Susceptible the way I am? No. A shaman or a mage could tell you what power your moon blood gives you over the rest of the world. It is blood that calls to blood. What happened to me this night could happen to a vampire. Or a dhampir. But not to most men, men who have no vampire blood in them."

"I only wanted to give you a back rub," Doris whispered.

She had wanted a good deal more than that, and D knew it in his veins and bone marrow, but he said nothing.

"Don't be mad at me," Doris said. "I didn't know. I really didn't."

"I know," D replied gently. He could smell her blood now, all of it, from her hymen and from deep within her and even the residue from her neck, from the wound he had made ... probably less than an hour earlier, but it seemed an eternity. And he did what he had longed to do the night before, when his own bloodlust had nearly undone him: he drew her closer and tucked her head under his chin, and his ungloved hand stroked that hair so soft, so beautiful even tangled and sweat-damp. How could one master one's powers in a world that denied their existence—a world that despised dhampirs and precious moon blood alike?

How indeed?

The blood hunger was stirring in him now: still quiet, drowsy, but just strong enough to remind him of its importance—and the consequences of ignoring it.

"Go to sleep, Doris," he said at last. "Tomorrow is another day."

_Tomorrow I'll be gone,_ he silently resolved.

Doris's breathing slowed, and her body relaxed in sleep. _I need to sleep too,_ D thought. And despite or because of everything that had transpired this night, he didn't want to be alone for the little sleep that he needed. He would wake long before dawn; get up and dress and leave. But now ... now he reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. He could see as well in the dark as any vampire, but it was still somehow comforting and familiar, the darkness he knew so well: an impalpable cocoon. He made a smaller, warmer cocoon within it, pulling the covers more tightly about both of them. It was safe here, truly safe, if only for a little while; safe to relax against the warmth and softness of someone who cared for him with a brave, gentle heart.

D's eyes fell shut, and he let sleep overtake him, just this once, with a woman in his arms.


End file.
